Well, thank goodness for that. I have it on good authority that Noles was going to sack Bert if his losing streak stretched to two. (In fact, reading his match report last week, I thought Noles was going to sack all of us.) But, just as Mark Robins is often credited with saving Sir Alex Ferguson’s job back in 1990, perhaps in the year 2030, as Bert leads CTFC to a third consecutive Champions League, people will look back and fondly recall the day in March 2010 that Max Thompson, Sam Holman, Will Ivey, Clifton Marshall (c), Chris Whitehurst and Neal Hunt saved Bert from the chop and sparked two decades of unparalleled success. Perhaps….
Earlier in the week, the MD of Cavanagh Group had expressed concern that Bert’s passion for CTFC was impinging on his proper job, and it was politely suggested that Bert got his priorities straight. Bert agreed, and left the Cavanagh Group the same day. He spent the rest of the week plotting Franklands Village’s downfall, stopping only to watch his favourite programme (Lambing Live on BBC1) and to cook Eileen’s dinner.
We arrived nice and early, and everyone sat down quietly to be told off for last week’s nonsense. To be fair, prior to last weekend, the last time we lost a league game I wasn’t there because I was taking my then three-day-old daughter home for the first time. The fact that she was sixteen-months-old by the time we next lost a league game speaks volumes. (And it’s worth noting that, according to official statistics, 105,000,000 more babies were born in the period between those two defeats. Yes.)
So, to the football. Having played 4-3-3 for his first forty games in charge, Bert decided that there’s no better time to experiment than in a semi-final, switching us to 3-5-2. I thought George looked particularly pleased to be beginning his career as a wing back at the tender age of 36.
Before the game, the referee told Bert that he knew it was a local derby and he knew it was a semi-final and so he knew it would be a very physical game and that was fine with him. Well, someone said that to Bert before the game. I refuse to believe that it was the referee, because as far as I recall he gave a free kick every time there was any sort of physical contact whatsoever, and I’d have to say that at least 90% of the free kicks he gave against us were softer than Holman’s cock after three pints of Jim’s obscure ale.
Noles had started well enough but, ten minutes in, he suddenly remembered that his annual trip to A&E was long overdue. A swift clash of heads promptly rectified the situation and off he went. Small consolation, but he did at least win the Princess Royal Hospital’s weekly prize awarded to First Footballer In, checking in at a sensational 1.52pm, a full eight minutes before most games in Mid-Sussex had even kicked off.
0-0 after 120 minutes sounds about as interesting as watching snooker on teletext, but I thought it was actually a pretty good game. Village were much, much better than they were at their place earlier in the season, and they’ll feel very unlucky to not be in the final.
They probably had the majority of possession and territory and they also created the better chances, forcing three or four good saves out of Nealo and hitting the post with one of the rebounds. Having said that, while not a single player on either side had a bad game, I personally thought that the three or four best players on the pitch were all ours. Nealo was faultless in goal, and I just wish his missus would let him out more, and The Engine and the Bearded Wonder were tireless up front.
MoM, however, went to dear old Clifton Marshall himself. I knew, from the moment I saw his legendary “Hitler’s Typewriter” warm up, that it was going to be his day and it was. He was everywhere and, even though he had a little pop at me during extra time, I still love him in an entirely inappropriate way.
What else? Oh yes, near the end Bert suddenly remembered that making people of Obby’s age work for 120 minutes without a proper break contravenes some sort of EU regulation, so he took him off and sent on Wiggy in his place. Good move, I think, what with Wiggy’s cool head, fondness for penalties and vast repertoire of comedy sound effects.
Will nearly stole the game for us at the end but, having brought Mrs Ivey and a large collection of sensationally juicy oranges with him, a 120th minute winner would have been showing off. He does, however, deserve a special mention for his work as Fixtures Secretary, particularly for getting the game moved from next week (when half of the squad are missing) to this week. Bert had everyone available except Lusky, who was in Amsterdam, presumably indulging his renowned passion for the Dutch Post-Impressionists and the architecture of Hendrick de Keyser.
Where was I? Oh yes, so the game went to penalties, for the third time this season (and “always in cup games” noted George, either dryly or ridiculously, not quite sure). Now, the last time I took a penalty in a shoot-out, I missed the decisive kick, and I can assure you it’s a truly horrible feeling. I felt like the baldest man at the school reunion, like nothing had worked out how I’d imagined. Ironic then that the poor sod who missed their vital fifth penalty probably will be the baldest man at his school reunion. Our penalties, it has to be said, were flawless, so well done boys. In the event of sudden death, Tommy Chez was number six, but after that it was a bit unclear. Shorty and I were trying to hide behind each other and Dave “Misses 9/10 Penalties” Sarling was taking no chances – he simply ran away and locked himself in his car. Lucky for us then that FV’s fifth and final penalty smashed against the crossbar and the silly dancing could start.
So, it’s cup final suits to the dry cleaners and off we go to Hanbury Park Stadium. Wonderful scenes indeed, well done everyone! The final word, however, must go to our MoM/ skipper. Over to you, Clifton.
“I had to share this with you lads. I'm looking at the Glasto line-up for this year, and see quite possibly the best band name ever: Gandalf Murphy and the Slambovian Circus of Dreams. Now, after the weekend I've had, that truly is the icing on the cake. Well, that and knobbing Sammy's bird. Let the good times roll.” – Clifton Marshall (c) |
